


Dust to Dust

by Shayheyred



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayheyred/pseuds/Shayheyred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley ponders his effect on his opposite number</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust to Dust

Crowley was not superstitious, per se. In his experience there was nothing mysterious about Otherworldly things; he was one such thing, after all, and very real indeed. However, superstitions such as carrying rabbits' feet or touching wood or not walking on cracks were pointless to a demon – after all, once you've literally been in Hell, there's not much else to fear. Besides, he knew all the wood spirits, and they were amateurs compared to him when it came to doing bad things. He didn't have a mother whose back he could break by stepping on a crack, and as for having a rabbit's foot, it was useless -- unless one were a rabbit.

However, what Crowley _was_ was pragmatic to the nth degree.

There was something about Aziraphale's shop that made him very superstitious indeed, specifically the dust in Aziraphale's shop, _very_ specifically the dust on the books in Aziraphale's shop. Crowley feared dire consequences should he so much as disturb a mote of said dust. But there were pragmatic reasons, not the least of which was his pathological aversion to dirt, especially dirt on his rather expensive-looking clothing. But it largely was due to Aziraphale himself, who, for all of his being an inoffensive, pleasant type of angel chap most of the time, became positively demonic when Crowley merely pushed aside an ancient tome in order to find a place to sit. His eyes would burn, his face would screw up into petulant distaste, and his affable tone of voice would become pinched and clipped as he snapped, "Oh, _do_ leave that alone, Crowley!" or "Do you mind not touching anything, _please!_ "

All of which Crowley should have found amusing, or perhaps annoying, or even pathetic. Instead he found it profoundly unsettling. Aziraphale merely annoyed he could handle; Aziraphale glaring with smoldering anger Crowley could not endure.

And anger for no reason at all -- just for his stupid, pointless book collection!

Wrath. And _greed,_ perhaps. _That's two sins,_ Crowley though morosely. Funny; for centuries he'd been joking about corrupting the angel. Now such a little thing as a flash of pointless wrath on the angel's part filled the demon with foreboding. A corrupted Aziraphale was just… _wrong._ Aziraphale was meant to be silly and pedantic and jovial and inoffensive and innocent, in a way, not demonstrating less angelic, fully human behavior. Not, certainly like Crowley himself. They were meant to be opposites, counteracting forces.

But _What if I've succeeded?_ Crowley wondered. _What if this is just the beginning?_

Such thoughts were inappropriate for the spawn of Hell to think – really, shouldn't he be gleefully plotting an angel's fall? But as he approached the shop on this sunny afternoon, such were the dark thoughts in Crowley's mind.

_What if he's starting to work his way through all seven sins?_

He put his hand on the knob and turned it, to the accompaniment of happy tinkling bells.

_What if I actually do make him fall? What then?_

"Oh, my dear chap!" Aziraphale called from the office. "Back here!" As if he were ever anywhere else.

_What if it's my fault?_

Well, the answer, Crowley thought as he passed among the dusty shelves of the shop, is that there would be cheering in Hell, and maybe a promotion, which didn't necessarily mean something he'd like, and might include a congratulatory flogging, for example. But the real Hell to pay would be his own conscience, and–

Oh, shite. The idea that he might still have one was disturbing, to say the least.

But most of all, he pictured the look on a fallen Aziraphale's face.

Accusatory.

Sad.

Heartbroken.

_No. Never._

"Oh, there you are," Aziraphale said, smiling. "Here, sit down."

Crowley looked up sharply as the angel picked up a large book, dusted off the chair on which it had been sitting, and pointed to the seat. "Sit down?" he said faintly.

"Oh, yes, dear chap," Aziraphale said. Crowley noticed he was blushing slightly. "Cup of tea?"

"Er."

"Oh, no, of course. Some whiskey?"

"Er, yes, thank you." What in the world—

The angel poured him two fingers of lovely Scotch whiskey and stood a few feet away. "Crowley, my dear," Aziraphale said. Yes, indeed, he was blushing quite a bit now. "I fear I must apologize to you for my behavior yesterday. I should never have been so harsh with you about my silly books." He leaned in slightly and extended a hand. "Will you forgive me?"

Crowley choked on his whiskey. Aziraphale patted him on the back and hovered nervously.

"Forgive you," he said, when he could speak again. "Of course not."

"Oh, yes, I understand," Aziraphale said, sounding like he really did understand. "You can't, being um…what you are, and all."

"You see my dilemma."

"Quite."

 _Thank Hea—Thank Sa—! Well. Apparently I'm not very good at corrupting, after all._ "Good," Crowley said aloud.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. It's just….you never change, do you?" _I like you just the way you are, angel._

"Certainly not," Aziraphale said. "Perhaps that tea, now?"

"Tea," Crowley said, settling back in his chair. "Don't mind if I do."

* * *


End file.
